Falling for the Highland Rogue

She shrugged, but the laugh and the words grated. It was all right for him to be merciless, but it made her a bitch. She was cold, though. Inside. Mark had seen to that. And she had no plans to change because of a face designed to break hearts. She didn’t have a heart. Not any more. She let her eyes drift closed. ‘Tell me what you would have me do, Jack.’

‘I’m thinking you should spend some time with him,’ Jack said.

Her eyes flew open. ‘What sort of time?’ She sat up. ‘You know I don’t like—’

‘You will do as you’re told.’ A flash of light caught crooked white teeth bared in a grin, but it was the clenched fist that caught her attention.

‘You will spend whatever kind of time is needed to keep him out of my way for a day or so while I see what McKenzie has on offer.’

‘You don’t think Gilvry can deliver?’

‘When they send a boy to do a man’s job?’

Damn Jack. Sometimes he listened too well. Spend time with young Gilvry? Torture. But her heart raced in a way it hadn’t for a very long time. An odd sort of anticipation. Her insides trembling as if she was a filly at the starting gate. Her breathing far too shallow for comfort.

‘I’m sure I can find a way to keep him busy.’

Jack grunted and his fist relaxed.

Distract Gilvry. It was what she did best. So why did she have a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach? What? Did she pity the wretch who had eyed her with heat like so many others? He was no different to any of them. None of them deserved consideration. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

Pleasure. He was a pleasure to look at, certainly.

She stared out of the window and for the first time in a very long time she wrestled with regret for what had brought her to this life. The youthful folly that had made her think she could rely on a man’s honour.

* * *

With Tammy Gare standing at his shoulder, Logan knocked on the door to O’Banyon’s chambers. The bruiser, Growler they called him, stared when he saw Tammy, but he said nothing, just ushered them into the foyer like a butler, taking his hat and his gloves and opening the door to the parlour.

‘Gilvry.’ O’Banyon came forwards at once to meet him, hand outstretched, his smile warm and his pale blue eyes dancing. ‘I see you brought reinforcements.’

Logan shook a hand that was warm and dry and just firm enough to be a warning. ‘Edinburgh’s streets can be just as dangerous as those in London, I imagine.’

‘To be sure.’ He shifted, giving Logan more of a view of the room and the woman seated on the sofa by the hearth behind a tea tray set with three cups and a pot already steaming.

The deep red of her gown was shocking against the pale fabric of the cushions. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He had not expected her presence or he would have steeled himself.

‘You must be forgiving me my manners,’ O’Banyon was saying. ‘I did not introduce you earlier. Charity, this is Mr Gilvry with whom I have some business. Gilvry, Mrs Charity West.’

Married, then. Disappointment gripped him.

Heather-purple eyes gazed at him coolly. They were not as dark in colour as he’d thought at the Reiver, but they held dark knowledge. A small smile played at the corners of her lush red lips. Blood on snow. The thought made him vaguely light-headed as he bowed over her outstretched gloved hand. Not the York tan she had worn in the alehouse, but lacy gloves through which he could feel the warmth of her skin. Searing warmth. As he bowed he was afforded a close view of the rise of her bountiful bosom and the shadow of the valley between. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mrs West.’

Her lips tilted upwards as if he had said something humorous. ‘Oh, no, Mr Gilvry. The pleasure is all mine.’ He voice was low and husky and hinted at all things carnal.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. And he felt a throb of lust in his groin. It wasn’t the first time a woman had played the siren to his face, but it was the first time in years that his control had been this elusive.

What could not be cured, could be ignored. Something he’d taught himself well in the years since he’d run afoul of Maggie.

Pleasure was not why he was here.

He turned back to O’Banyon, who was watching him with a hard expression. Damn it all, he hoped the man didn’t notice...or think...he had any more interest in the woman than that of any male faced with a stunningly beautiful woman who had her assets on display. As instructed, Tammy now stood on one side of the parlour door and O’Banyon’s man on the other.

‘Will you be taking tea?’ O’Banyon asked. ‘Or can I pour you a dram of whisky?’

‘Perhaps you would like to try a drop of what Dunross has to offer.’ He snapped his fingers. Tammy stepped forward smartly as they had practised and handed Logan a bottle of the whisky put down in his father’s time. O’Banyon looked surprised and pleased.

Tammy returned to his place. Growler eyed him, measuring and weighing. Tammy returned the favour.

Noticing the direction of Logan’s gaze, O’Banyon chuckled. ‘Shall we dispense with their services?’

It was what he had hoped when he had given Tammy his instructions. ‘Certainly.’

‘Take Mr Gilvry’s man down to the servants’ hall,’ O’Banyon instructed. ‘Offer him some refreshments.’

Whatever he was offered, Tammy would stand by his word and only take tea. He would not let O’Banyon’s man out of his sight until he and Logan were reunited. Logan took the chair opposite Mrs West. Charity. Now there was a name for a woman who looked like sin personified.

‘I will take tea,’ he said, surprising himself.

‘With a dash of whisky in it?’ O’Banyon asked, pouring himself a glass at the table near the window and holding out the bottle to Logan.

‘No, thank you. It is your gift from my brother.’

‘Charity, my dear?’

‘No, thank you, Jack,’ she murmured in a voice that made Logan think of skin sliding against skin.

Glass in hand, O’Banyon wandered back to sit at the other end of the sofa, facing Logan, while Mrs West poured tea in the style of a well-born lady. Come to think of it, her voice was also that of a lady, not the rough accents of the street or the drawl of the country. She spoke much like his brother’s wife, Lady Selina. But accents could be learned.

She smiled at him and once more his body tightened. ‘Your tea, Mr Gilvry.’ She held out a cup and saucer and he rose to take it from her hand. Somehow their fingers touched, though he was sure he had been careful enough not to do anything so clumsy. The heat of that brief touch made his hand tremble and he had to catch the cup with his other hand to prevent a spill.

Not that she seemed to notice. She was pouring another cup for herself and he could see only the crown of artfully arranged curls the colour of toffee as she bent to the task.

O’Banyon was busy gazing at the whisky in his glass.

Logan sat down and, getting command of himself, took a sip from his cup. Tea. He’d far rather have ale any day of the week.

The Irishman took a slow sip, swirled the liquid around his mouth and then swallowed. His eyelids lowered as he slowly nodded approval. ‘Fine. Very fine. And expensive, I am thinking.’

‘Naturally. It is the best we have. Old. But we have grades to suit all tastes and purses.’ He waited for O’Banyon to rise to the bait. There was a reason Ian had sent Logan to woo this man from London. Over and over again they had proved that one look at his face and men trusted him to speak the truth. And he did. But trust was hard-won in this necessarily illegal business of theirs. The English Parliament continued to keep a boot on the neck of Scotland.

‘I could see serving this to some of my special customers,’ O’Banyon said, his gaze direct, chilly, fixed on Logan’s face. ‘But I’d need to taste the other stuff, too. The Chien serves gentlemen who might not want to be paying for the very best, but it has to be decent.’

Despite the hard gaze of the man he was facing, he could feel the woman’s eyes upon him, too. She was looking him over, as if waiting for him to fail to impress. Why he had that impression or why he was even aware of her, when this deal with O’Banyon was so important to the clan, he could not fathom.

He took another sip of his tea, let the pause grow just enough to make O’Banyon’s shoulders fractionally stiffen. He loved the twists and turns of this game. The risks, whether it was in the taverns where the deals were done, or on the heather-clad hills where gaugers lurked behind every bush.

He put down his cup. ‘You were drinking it tonight. Archie served you this year’s distilling.’